Losing a Child

Today marks six years since we lost our oldest son, Joseph to cancer. Six years ago was the darkest, most excruciating day of my life. Today we are in a much better place, but it has been a long journey from that horrid place.

Losing a child changes you. That seems so obvious, but you really cannot predict how it will change you.

You may feel guilty about anything that makes you happy. You may feel that in enjoying something you are some how letting down your loved one. It takes a long time to truly enjoy things in life again.

You remove yourself more often from social situations. Begin social is utterly exhausting after losing a loved one. Getting to that level where you're chatting, relaxed, and happy is more difficult than you imagine. Being around people that are happy somehow reminds you that you are not and that someone you care about is missing. And then you don't really want to explain that to people so you slowly stop going to things.

You don't give as much of yourself away any more. If you were once open and friendly and loving, you find that you don't share as much of yourself any more. You find that in opening up that side of you, you may open up the wound and you just don't want to chance that. So you love and enjoy at a different level because it's sometimes the only way to cope with the pain.

You miss one of the most important parts of yourself. You constantly feel like your child should be coming home any moment. And while you know they are gone, you still look for them and feel as if they should be home. Then you remember they are not coming home again, and the ache is just so powerful.

You are hyper aware of other people's suffering, and you wish so desperately that they were not facing pain. And while you have so recently been through something similar, you still have no words to truly ease their suffering. But you wish constantly that you did.

You watch your other children suffer in the loss of their brother. You watch them cry because they can't remember how their brother looks or sounds. You watch them trying to keep it together on their brother's birthday or special events while their friends have no idea how much they are hurting inside. You put aside your own pain to hold up the child who is currently hurting because nothing is more important than healing the rest of your family.

You wonder constantly how to celebrate special events such as Christmas, your child's birthday, and vacations. You sometimes want to get lost in the moment of the holiday or sometimes you want nothing to do with it.

You find yourself wanting to share your child's memory with everyone, but you don't want to burden them with a pain they can't understand. You recognize that uncomfortable look in others' eyes when you've discussed your pain too much, and you fold back into yourself because it really is your own burden to carry.

You struggle to know how to continue caring for a child that is no longer with you. You feel lost and confused about how to still parent from a distance so they still feel your love. You never quite figure it out.

You watch your spouse suffer differently from you, and you ache all over again knowing you can't make it better for them. You take turns suffering: one falling apart while the other one stands strong. And sometimes you have to put away for a bit because it threatens to consume you.

You find you mourn for him in the most unlikely places: vacations, dates with your spouse, getting ready in the morning, driving down the freeway. It washes over you suddenly, and without warning and you weep when no one's looking.

You find yourself comforting others that miss him too. And sometimes that is exactly what you want to do, and other times you wish you could selfishly miss him by yourself. You want to share him and yet keep him all to yourself.

You learn you are stronger than you ever thought you were. You learn you can wake up day after day and keep moving forward despite a pain that consumes you. You learn that even after the most awful thing your heart has ever had to endure, you can be happy again. You can find peace again. You can love again. You can heal.

For me, having faith that I will see Joseph again has been the biggest source of peace and comfort for me again. Believing that one day we will not only see him, but raise him again as a family helps me move not away from the pain, but towards being with him again.

Having a loving husband to stand with has given me strength at those moments when I was on the verge of breaking down. Loving each other through it has proven to me the strength of our love. We continue to lean on each other constantly.

Having other children who needed me, who are bright stars of their own has given me purpose and a place to put my heart.

Having extended family who listen and understand and try to give us space when we need it has been a tribute to the kind of people they are.

Having friends all over the world who remember, comment, care, and support us makes me feel his memory lives on, and that will always be important to me.

On this sixth anniversary of my son's passing, I feel at peace. I will never stop missing him, and some years are more difficult than others. But I know he is well. I know he is at peace with my brother. And I KNOW I will be with him again. I'm grateful for this knowledge.